


The Growling of the Gale

by Anonymous



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, violence kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2018-02-04 20:34:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1792312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier is an attractive individual, but for Rumlow, looking at him is nothing to watching him fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Growling of the Gale

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the [prompt](http://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/587.html?thread=88395#cmt88395) "rumlow is actually in awe of and slightly worshipful of the winter soldier (as a weapon, as a superior enhanced human, as a peak specimen, as a hotass) and keeps finding excuses to, you know, touch him, handle him, be the one to strap him into the chair, check the restraints by running his hand along the asset's inner thigh (what it's totally legitimate)... eventually progressing to sucking his dick because he just can't help himself, the asset is right there and he's so beautiful and terrifying." This...does not really fulfill the letter of the prompt (which also asks for Rumlow/Steve), but I hope the spirit is there. It's very tame and consensual as Hydra Trash _goes_ , but it does have some more or less canon-typical violence and some brief fantasies about dubcon/noncon, because Brock Rumlow is a terrible person.
> 
> The title is from [Gilbert and Sullivan](http://math.boisestate.edu/GaS/mikado/webopera/mk212.html), for which utter inappropriateness I apologize. I am bad at titles.

Officially, Brock is with a SHIELD strike team in England taking out an MI6 agent who looks likely to compromise the cover of a SHIELD asset. Unofficially, Brock is with a SHIELD strike team in England taking out an MI6 agent who looks likely to compromise the cover of a SHIELD asset. SHIELD _is_ Hydra, after all.

It's his first mission out of the country, and it gives him a glee that even he thinks is kind of stupid, to be working to undermine SHIELD in ex-Director Carter's native land. Fuck her and her drowned boyfriend and Howard Stark. If they couldn't work out that they'd been undermined from the beginning, they weren't much of an intelligence service.

The other fun part has been getting Jimmy across the pond. Brock thinks that really anyone in SHIELD can have a reasonable contempt for airport security technology and for airport security officials' competence, but it's still kind of unbelievable that the strike team were directed by a non-Hydra higher-up to travel to England in plainclothes by civilian airline and still succeeded in bringing along an unregistered extra agent with a _metal arm_. Brock couldn't help touching it. It wasn't necessary to do anything to the arm, all the foiling was done to the airport scanners, but Brock wanted to feel it, the texture and temperature difference, the metal in the hand articulating, flexing like tendons under his own hand. Jimmy--James, possibly a first or possibly a last name, specially assigned on this mission--didn't seem to notice, talking with one of the other strike team members. His flesh and blood hand was still, but Brock imagined it holding a gun, or a knife. Knew he'd see it soon. Even that hand could beat his face in or choke the life out of him. The metal one--he thought about it around his throat, in his hair. On his dick. He slid his hand up to Jimmy's tricep, where the machinery under the metal plates mimicked heavy musculature. They'd been briefed on Jimmy's skills and Brock knew exactly what he was capable of.

"I can feel that." Brock had no idea how long Jimmy'd been looking at him and a stab of fear hit him. He took his hand off Jimmy's arm immediately, brushed some imaginary dust off his clothes, scratched his nose. No extraneous movements from Jimmy. His face was pissed off, but his voice was expressionless; he didn't need to throw Brock off, or even ask, to get him to obey. Calling him "Jimmy" in his head is the only liberty Brock is allowed. He thinks about _screaming_ it.

* * *

Jimmy's like no one else Brock has worked with before. He's not officially the team leader on this mission, but everyone else defers to him, including the actual team leader, Travers. When they need to break in, he lets Sciacca do his work, but he keeps the team back while he stands perfectly still waiting for patrolling guards on the inside to walk into his crosshairs, all his focus channeled through his rifle sight.

When they go further in and encounter the expected resistance, it's like Jimmy's the only person in the room. Enemy agents, trained killers, fall like they're made of cardboard. Brock stands like a statue himself, training going completely out of his head, because he can't stop watching; the man is gorgeous, brutal, stabbing close to him with a knife in his flesh hand and firing with a pistol in his metal one. Punching an agent in the face with the blade turned aside when it's more convenient, then whirling around to stab another through the cheek, twist the knife and thrust it upwards. Jimmy glances at another corner of the room and ducks as a shot misses him, fires back and hits the shooter in the hand so she drops the gun. She pulls out a taser with her uninjured hand and rushes him--Brock holds his breath not out of concern, but anticipation--and Jimmy dodges her, snaps her knee viciously from the side, and shoots her in the head while she's on the ground looking up at him.

Jimmy calls out orders, not even out of breath, to the other SHIELD agents during the fight, and when he hears his name, Brock remembers to run in and use his gun, kicking the taser out of the dead agent's hand and grabbing it when he runs out of ammo. When it's finished, they search the bodies for identification; Sciacca finds their target's ID on one, and Travers confirms. "Just as well," she says, "harder to know who we were after."

"Find his computer. Make sure there's nothing left here about our asset," says Jimmy. Fry hangs back inanely. "I'm not so good with computers, so Rumlow here and I are going to find the target's locker and blow up the entire room it's in." Fry and the others move out.

Brock follows Jimmy half-expecting that his role in this part will be to babysit the explosives and make sure that no one disarms them before they go off. It's not as though Jimmy is looking more kindly on him than before. Now that Brock's closer to him, he can see tiny, tiny beads of perspiration along his hairline, and another surge of desire mixes with his fear. He couldn't lust after a weapon, a robot killer. Jimmy is a man who sweats, and feels touch on his metal arm, and admits to not knowing much about computers and that's fine because he's the best with a gun or a knife or his bare hands that Brock has ever known.

The area they enter is deserted; either the rest of the team is getting themselves in trouble, or the resistance they met before was everyone. Brock and Jimmy find a bank of lockers, match the key found on the target's body to a lock on one of them. Instead of putting the explosives in that one, Brock kneels to lockpick another one nearby. No point making it clear who they came in for, since they got lucky earlier. Jimmy hands him the explosives-- _fuck_ , there's someone else's blood on his hands--and he wires them up with what's left of his focus. He finishes and looks up at Jimmy, who makes no move to leave.

"What else?"

Jimmy's face is hard to read. "Stay down there and suck my dick, Rumlow."

Brock _knows_ he has just set up a remote-control bomb but he is suddenly, irrationally terrified that it's a time bomb that Jimmy will arm to see if Brock can get him off quickly enough. Can picture Jimmy doing that to an enemy agent, shoving them down on a rough cement floor so they tear their stockings or dirty their trouser knees, not because he's the kind of man to wager his life on an idiotic thing like that but because Brock can't imagine anyone who could watch him kill and hear him say that and dare to fail.

Jimmy continues. "You've been watching me the whole time. I'm not joking."

Brock isn't entirely sure Jimmy knows how to joke or likes jokes. He shakes his head. "Didn't think you were. Please." It must be clear enough in his voice that it's a _please, yes_ and not a _please, no_ , but that probably doesn't matter. Jimmy unfastens his trousers and takes out his dick, and Brock kneels up and leans in eagerly. He can't help just taking a look at Jimmy's dick as he wraps his hand around it, as a part of Jimmy that he hasn't seen yet. Brock wants to see all of him, actually have a chance to look at the way his chest and thigh and arm muscles move under skin when he doesn't need to have clothes on and go out and kill people. A man can dream. Right now, though, he wants Jimmy's dick in his mouth and trying to look at it too would leave his eyes as crossed as his straps.

He licks up the length of it a few times, trying to keep his heartbeat and his arousal under control so he can do this right. Jimmy's pretty hard already; maybe the adrenaline does something for him. Maybe he gets turned on by fighting. Brock sure gets turned on by Jimmy fighting. He shifts on his knees, closer between Jimmy's spread feet, and takes Jimmy's dick into his mouth.

Brock doesn't know what Jimmy was thinking he'd get out of this suckjob--whether it's the power that he likes, whether it'd been a while, whether he just really wanted to blow off steam after the fight and knew Brock was hot for him. When he looks up, Jimmy's usual composure is shaken, mouth open, teeth bared a little. It thrills Brock to do this to him, and it doesn't matter what brought it on. Brock, personally, finds it a privilege regardless. Finds it a fucking blasphemy, actually, that he's being allowed so much control here, allowed to have his hand around Jimmy's dick and suck him off. He drops that hand to Jimmy's side and catches Jimmy's near hand, the flesh and blood one, puts it on his head. Doesn't put his hand back up, but presses it against his own dick, which is counterproductive and makes him moan around Jimmy's. Brock doesn't think he could be saying _fuck my mouth_ more clearly if he were using words.

Brock sees Jimmy's feet, bracketing his knees, brace a little, and then Jimmy's metal hand is in his hair too, twisting and pulling, and oh, he can't _not_ open his trousers and stroke his dick now. He's sloppy, off time with Jimmy's thrusts into his mouth, and chafing dry, but it doesn't make him less desperate for it. If Jimmy didn't have both hands in his hair while he fucked him, he wouldn't be able to stay up. He's able to exert enough self-control to keep himself quiet, like Jimmy, after that first moan, but that's it.

Jimmy coming in his mouth is almost, almost enough to send Brock over too. He doesn't need to be dared to swallow. Jimmy leaves him kneeling on the floor with his hand on his own dick, obviously aware now that Brock is jacking off to this if he wasn't aware before, and steps around behind him, flesh hand still in his hair. Brock has only a moment to wonder if he's about to get a reach-around from this beautiful, fucking terrifying man. He doesn't have another moment to wonder whether he deserves it before Jimmy's metal hand wraps around his throat and he comes _hard_ on the floor by the lockers.

Jimmy lets him go. When Brock comes back to himself, Jimmy looks as though nothing has happened; his trousers are done up, there's not a drop of Brock's come on his black shoes, his face is impassive. Brock's sure that he's a mess, out of breath, mouth wet, and Jimmy coming out of this looking like a professional just makes Brock want him again.

Jimmy tosses him something as he stands up and tries to put himself together. It's the remote control for the explosives in the locker. "Come on, Rumlow," he says, heading back towards the room full of corpses where they'll rejoin the team. Brock follows him and, once they've put some distance behind them, hits the button and blows every shred of evidence to bits.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Katisha._ And you won't hate me because I'm just a little teeny weeny wee bit bloodthirsty, will you?
> 
>  _Ko-Ko._ Hate you? Oh, Katisha! is there not beauty even in bloodthirstiness?
> 
>  _Katisha._ My idea exactly.


End file.
